


symbiosis

by I_Will_Think_About_It_Later



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Cute lil bunbun Yuuri, Fluff, I just needed an outlet for the Victuuri feels okay ;A;, Introspection, Lovestruck Ice-Skating Idiots, M/M, Pointless & pseudo poetic, Smitten!Victor, VictUuri, Victor POV, ambiguous timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 01:17:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9411053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Will_Think_About_It_Later/pseuds/I_Will_Think_About_It_Later
Summary: "Yuuri is a phoenix risen from ashes, a maggot turned butterfly – he’s a Cinderalla story, where Viktor is the Fairy Godmother who wants to be Prince Charming."





	

**Author's Note:**

> I slipped and fell into the yoi pond
> 
> (yes that was an attempt at a pun and I won't blame you for turning back and leaving right now OTL)
> 
> It's my first time writing for this fandom and these characters so I reeeally hope it does them justice? I feel like I've not spent enough time with them to be able to do more than a drabble-ish thing but I just couldn't control the outpouring of victuuri feels ;A;
> 
> Partly inspired by THIS THING: https://goo.gl/bb5khS

They compare it to intoxication, this feeling.

The authors, the poets, the artists.

The lovers.

They compare it to intoxication, but Viktor knows what it is, what they both are, and he can tell you that it’s different. He can tell you what it’s like to have a booth to himself in a high-end restaurant or in a family diner or at a bar, what it’s like to chug down a shot and feel the alcohol punching _blazing burning rolling running_ down your gullet, making your gut recoil and your body clench like it’s bracing for impact and clouding through your mind like laughing gas. It’s the electricity in your veins and the heady happiness in between your ribs and a courage that fills your head, and it’s as substantial as gas in a hot air balloon – steamy and fickle and likely to leave you plummeting the minute it runs out.

This isn’t intoxication.

This is a slow, steady burn, this is a fever that creeps and creeps beneath your skin and grows and has you ensnared before you even realise that you’re sick.

This is…awe, this is surprise and fascination and amazement, this is having your breath knocked out and your lungs locked, your heart poised mid-beat, _every single time_ , more every time, because Yuuri – _Yuuri –_

He isn’t perfect.

Viktor knows he isn’t. He knows he eats too much when he’s stressed and he’s probably _always_ stressed and he puts on weight faster than he can lose it and he freaks out at everything from a competition to waking up late to not knowing where he’d left his glasses and it’s funny, watching him stumble around half-blind with his hair a bedraggled nest pointing at the ceiling and almost trip over a chair he thinks is Makkachin, to which he apologises with remorse and his eyes closed. He knows he can practise and practise and practise until a routine is programmed into his bones and still faceplant the ice or the wall, the soft fall of snow gusted away by an errant, unexpected breeze.

He knows all this.

Yuuri isn’t perfect.

And that is why he takes his breath away.

***

“Show me,” he tells him, eyes intent, mouth straight, “your Eros.”

He trembles and looks away from you.

He looks like you’re asking him to do a handstand on a frozen lake, or a cartwheel through the hot springs.

He looks like you’re asking for something he doesn’t have and he’s scared because he has to disappoint you.

Viktor is about to prove him wrong.

Viktor is about to let his façade slip, a moment, that blank impassive face he keeps on because it’s the only way he can keep everything _else_ inside his head _his heart his soul_ hidden, because it’s too much – it’ll overwhelm him. Yuuri is a scared little animal in the corner, and Viktor doesn’t want to startle him.

So Viktor smiles a tiny comforting smile, and leans in, and says, “Come on, _Yuuri_.” He purrs his name in a way he knows will make him melt, swoon, shiver and shake like he’s freezing except it’s the exact _opposite_ – he knows this is the effect he has on Yuuri. He goes high from the power of it. “This isn’t the first time, right?”

He adds, with a tiny tremble of his own, “It’s just for me.”

And so Yuuri moves, and Viktor watches with wide greedy eyes – he watches Yuuri lick his lips, once, twice, nervous, he watches him adjust his limbs so his weight is on his knees and his hands are planted palm-down on the mattress and he crawls, forward, toward Viktor, a little owlish because he’s not wearing his glasses, a little breathless because he’s taking the lead today, and he hovers, hesitates, before he lunges with a burst of courage or maybe of adrenaline –

Maybe of something else –

And then his face is scant centimetres away from Viktor’s and Viktor’s throat is dry, his tongue is gravel, his heart’s about to implode and Yuuri whips his head away, and squeaks, “I don’t know what I’m doing – ”

And Viktor gives up, and grabs him by the back of his neck and reels him in and yes, it’s too rough, yes, it’s not the gentle decadent type of lovemaking he’d been envisioning, but he can’t _help himself_ –

This is Yuuri’s Eros – the Eros only he has seen.

The Eros only he will ever see.

***

He’s got a ring on his hand and Yuuri has a ring on his but somehow it gets newer and more unlikely with each passing day.

***

That is why Viktor forgets, again and again and again, about what he’s come here to do – that is why he gets lost watching, off to the side of the rink with his gloves and his trench-coat and eyes which are supposed to belong to a coach but more often than not belong to…an admirer, a spectator, a passer-by who’s suddenly struck by beauty in an unexpected place.

He slips. Your student. Your muse. He sneaks a quick glance, he sees your unamused face, he blushes a deep maroon and stutters an apology you can see but can’t hear.

Viktor laughs and it’s a giggly sort of sound, like soapy bubbles in a summer garden, and it makes Yurio gag.

He slips and he makes mistakes. Your student. Your muse. And then he’s back up again, the meek shy chubby timid scared little guy you’d frightened out of his wits at his family onsen, and then he’s dripping sensuality and heated grace on the ice, he’s steaming through the air as he moves like he’s weightless, like he’s silk billowing in the air – he mists everything into nothing.

He surprises the world, he surprises you, and that’s the best part, because he _isn’t perfect._

 _You_ know where he’s coming from, _you’ve_ seen where he was and where he is now – he doesn’t have the bubbly feistiness of Phichit or the suggestive sexuality of Chris or the intimidating elegance of Yurio. Not to Viktor. Not to the world.

Yuuri is…a phoenix risen from ashes, a maggot turned butterfly – he’s a Cinderalla story, where Viktor is the Fairy Godmother who wants to be Prince Charming.

***

“Can you stop?”

“Stop what?”

“ _Ogling_ him.”

“I’m not _ogling_ him – I’m supervising.”

“Is that why you’re drooling?”

He just smiles a clueless questioning smile at Yurio and pisses him off even more.

***

He wants him.

He wants him in ways that get his teeth gritting and his toes curling and his gut pulling. He wants him in ways that make heat seep and sink and burn deep, low in his tummy. Lower.

And you know what the amazing part is? The mindboggling, the stunning, the ironic, the crazy, part?

He’s not even _trying._

Not in the way he thinks he is.

Not in the way he’s decided to wear contact lenses and not his usual preferred frumpy casual wear. Not in the way he’s tried to make himself pretty for you, not in the way he’s pretending so very hard to be enthused to be where they are at Viktor’s behest, even though crowds overwhelm him, socialising is not his forte, and of course there _is_ that, there is all of that but it’s –

More –

It’s –

His body pushing close to yours because really there is not much space here, there isn’t supposed to be, because it’s a Friday and it’s a club and the drinks are going round and the lights are turned down low and the music is less audible and more _visceral_ , beats pulsing through the floor and air and making bones and heartbeats quake, multiple mini heatwaves that leave your skin prickling and your napes sweaty.

It’s the way he gets jostled into your space and makes contact and jerks back and snaps his head at you to check if you noticed.

It’s the way his pupils dilate the moment you decide to stop torturing him and wind a hand around his waist, and he’s not trying _now_ , is he, not when his tongue sneaks out and dabs at his trembling lower lip?

He’s not trying _now_ , the breath whistling out of him, when Viktor pulls them flush into each other and sways to the rhythm of the music, and it might be a gasp, or a moan, but the important thing is it’s _hot_ and Viktor’s the only one in the world to hear it.

His lips are in tatters, chewed up and chapped, by the time Viktor meshes their mouths together, and there’s nothing deliberate in it, not like the sensuous come-hithers they orchestrate for the crowd – _for Viktor, for me, to seduce ME, my own personal favourite katsudon_ – nothing intentional or choreographed in the muffled squeal or the mingling taste of salt and alcohol and quavering lips tentatively melding into his.

This desperation, this _heat_ , this _want_ – it’s like he’s holding a raw diamond in his hands. Unrefined and gritty and rough but with a core locked inside of it so much more priceless than anything you can fathom, anything you have ever possessed or touched.

It awes you, it inspires you.

It humbles you.

It makes you selfish.

“Don’t ever show this face to anyone else,” he growls into Yuuri’s ear, wet and dark and intense and so unlike the soft dulcet tones and sweet seduction Yuuri deserves – he’s going mad, he’s going crazy, it’s too hot, too many people, too much interference, too dark, too far from their hotel, too, _too much_.

Yuuri quivers in his hold, jolts electricity through him, and Viktor’s lightheaded and sober and brave and reckless and he’s only had one drink.

***

He’d been right about Yuuri’s allure, but he’d not anticipated _how much_ of it he has.

***

He’d never been happier being mistaken.

***

They – he and Yuuri – they them _we us_ – wanted to teach the world about Eros – about _love_.

About Yuuri’s love.

Viktor gets to learn about it too.

But for him, it’s a little bit different.

It’s a little bit – a _lot_ , very, in many, many ways, too many to count, and _countless_ is a perfect word, it’s limitless and great and all _his_ – selective.

It’s sitting at the edge of a swimming pool in freezing wintry weather coaxing Viktor to come out armed with the fluffiest robes and towels he’s been able to find, until he gives up and jogs back to run a warm bath, and it’s hiding the liquor no matter how much Viktor pleads and scolds and quarrels.

It’s waking up to ice-cold limbs pressed up against his and yelling in croaky half-notes but letting himself be used as a human heater anyway anyway, and it’s taking as many snaps of Viktor and Makkachin in front of a giant inflatable balloon shaped like a doggy bone as it takes before he’s happy with it.

It’s letting himself get dragged into a doctor’s office because Viktor is on the verge of a massive panic attack, and holding his hand even though Viktor’s well aware all the nurses are laughing at them and Yuuri’s short-circuiting from the embarrassment but still being there, with worried eyes and sympathetic soft touches, when he gets his vaccination booster.

It’s sitting at the edge of the doctor’s office while Viktor sits in the patient’s seat later for his regular check-up, pouty and belatedly embarrassed, and catching his eye while his files are being checked – it’s blushing wine-deep but blowing him a small, tiny kiss anyway that makes it _really_ difficult for Viktor to stay put and not just accost him there and then for being _too damn cute, dammit Yuuri._

It’s Yuuri’s love, and it’s complete and utterly beautiful and days turn into weeks and weeks become months and spring becomes summer, seasons change, surroundings change, but the gold band on his hand remains, and it – all of it – is _his_.

***

It’s almost too much.

Almost.

***

_“Can you please stop putting pictures of your half-naked boyfriend on social media?!”_

“He’s in PJs,” Viktor defends – he’s adorably confused, the _last_ person you’d _ever_ imagine would spend as long as half an hour trying to get the perfect snapshot of Yuuri snoozing with Makkachin tucked into his side, shirt riding up his tummy, one earbud wire dangling off his shoulder and playing faint bass-heavy music, low riding trousers with their undone drawstring hugging his hips and hinting, ever so teasingly, the defined vee dipping beneath his waist, “He looks cute!”

Yurio splutters incoherently, spits venom.

Mila, behind him and on her phone, comments, “… _cute_ isn’t the word the internet is using.”

It’s some fifteen minutes later that Viktor’s got a moment to himself and his Instagram, fifteen seconds more of scrolling through comments on his post that have his blood rushing to his head, five seconds to delete the picture and erase any trace of it in cyberspace, and then a minute spent petulantly glowering hard enough and pointedly enough that Yuuri skids over to him, concerned and open to consolation kisses.

***

He’d been afraid, once upon a time.

He’d been afraid that the thing he loved the most in the world could no longer be his.

He’d think he’d be done, it’d be over – he’s run out of ways to surprise people, he’s run out of ways to fascinate them, he’s run out of ways to surpass expectations when expectations are pegged at nothing short of perfection, and even for him, it is too lofty an ideal, because it’s not _new_ anymore. It’s not challenging. He doesn’t feel _accomplishment,_ he doesn’t feel _satisfaction_ and –  

It’s daunting, crushing, frightening, and above all –

Boring.

Tedious.

You think you run out of ways to surprise the world, and that’s it. You’re a goner.

But he proves you wrong.

He saves you.

He skates like a dream, like a whirlwind, like a tempest, like every beautiful thing any human eye has witnessed and all those things they haven’t. He slips and slides and twirls and dances in full motions poignant in their sweeps and curves, in _his_ sweeps and curves, in the way he tells a story about love and its shapes, with his expressions, his movements, his motions. His presence.

He saves you, he stops, he’s beautiful and everyone knows it, the clamouring cheering clap-cry-screaming audience know it, the world knows it, and they’re _all_ looking at him and they’ve not been able to look away, and infallibly, as he’s done every single time –

Yuuri’s eyes seek out Viktor, and hunt for his approval.

He proves him wrong. He saves him. He holds a gold medal and he doesn’t see anyone else, tears blinding him, but he moves to you anyway, and he holds it out to you, and he’s laughing and crying and he’s happy and he’s hopeful but he’s searching your face for…something.

Trying to make sense for something.

And Viktor _gets it._

Katsuki Yuuri isn’t perfect.

Not for the world.

Not the world Viktor skated for.

Because Viktor skated for the world –

And Yuuri has skated for Viktor.

***

He doesn’t kiss the gold medal.

***

He kisses something better.

***

He’s pushing thirty, he’s feeling the age, his muscles aren’t as supple and as flexible as they used to be.

But his soul is on fire, his nerves are ablaze and tingling with excitement, with _possibility_. His brain is buzzing, filled with opportunity, with anticipation, with notes of routines and beats of music and concepts and themes. A commotion, but the best kind.

He’s locked his medals away. He’s wiped his slate clean. He breathes deep, closes his eyes, braces himself.

A hand touches his, grounding him. Reeling him back to reality.

“Ready?” Yuuri asks – small but thrilled, warmth and brightness and nerves and elation wrapped into one.

It’s like he has tunnel vision all the _time_ now. And he’s fine with that.

“Ready,” he hums back, and pauses only to brush the tips of his fingers against Yuuri’s smiling lips.

Their theme hasn’t changed, but everything about it has.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading and I hope it wasn't too bleh //bows//


End file.
